I Want to Be Seen, But Maybe Not Completely

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews. If you enjoy my writing here, chances are you’ll love Mrs. Rochester.

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William James said that whenever two people meet, there are really six people present. There is each person as they see themselves, each as the other person sees them and each person as they really are. It’s an interesting concept. Would I want to see myself as others see me? Would I want to know how others see themselves? Would I want them to know how I see them? I’m thinking maybe not.

We want to be seen, but maybe not completely, not in all our glory and weirdness. And yet, not being seen makes us uncomfortable, too. We feel abandoned, lonely, in danger of neglect. Somehow, we need to make peace with those six people.

A little while ago, I was telling a friend a story from my life and she said, ‘Oh, Barb,’ in a way that let me know she’d really heard what I was saying. And, yes, I felt seen and heard and what do you do with that? It feels so vulnerable. It feels unsafe. There I am, all exposed. Now what?

I’ve spent too much of my life trying to blend in, being invisible, to enjoy being truly seen and heard. Ignored is not good. Dismissed is not good. But leave me a goodly layer of protection. See me, but maybe not all of me.

It comes down to trust. I have been most deeply betrayed by people who have seen me most clearly. Some people listen deeply only to collect ammunition. It feels like such a relief to be heard that you unwittingly hand over the whole arsenal. I like to keep my ammunition to myself. If you can sort of see me, if you mostly listen, that is plenty.

Then again, wouldn’t it be amazing to meet all the selves that others know you as? A whole roomful of you, only not quite you, different aspects of you and some complete strangers. There would be people you’d like and people you’d be completely horrified by, depending on your history with others and how they see you. It would be a completely freakish thing and probably make you feel self-conscious for the rest of your life, knowing that people see you, that you actually exist outside of your own head. I mean, I’d love to know how other people see me, but I also really, really wouldn’t.

These days, I wonder how my friends view my writing. Like, do they see Mrs. Rochester as some kind of misguided vanity project? Are they cringing on my behalf? Or does it just not register?

I wonder how different ages changes how we see each other. Do my nieces and nephews see me as old? Do my great nieces and nephews see me as ancient, the way I saw my great aunt? Surely not, I tell myself. I’m still young and hip. But, objectively, I’m in no better shape than she was, so I’m probably scary old to them. At least I don’t smell like moth balls.

We bumped into a bread customer the other day — one I used to have long chats with when I worked at the bakery. It took me a minute to recognize her, it had been so long. She recognized Alan, but I’m not entirely sure she knew who I was, even though she asks how I’m doing every time she’s in the bakery.

It’s an odd feeling to realize someone’s forgotten you. Someone you liked. Someone you used to have lovely conversations with.

In that room with all my other selves, I suspect there’d be a fair few ghosts.

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Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.